During my first Ramazan in Istanbul, which came hardly a month after I moved here in 2024, I decided to say my Friday prayers in a mosque. For the first Friday, I went to the Ayasofya (Hagia Sophia), the 1,500-year-old structure which is inarguably the most famous landmark of Istanbul.

In the women’s section of the mosque, there’s a long corridor that runs parallel to the length of the main prayer hall. Adjacent to the corridor, on its left side, are some elevated platforms, with small wooden fences separating them from the main hall. On one of the platforms, there was – what I interpreted to be – a hush/do-not-talk sign along with some text in Turkish.

Back then, my knowledge of the Turkish language was zero. Taking out my mobile phone and translating the text seemed awkward so I simply sat there with the other women, only to realise after a few moments that the section was meant for the hearing-disabled/mute people.

A woman at the front was repeating the khutba [sermon] in sign language to the group of which I was also a part. While I was a little embarrassed at not understanding what the sign was, I was impressed by the arrangement, which made sure that the differently-abled did not lag behind when it came to practising religion.

A Pakistani woman’s experiences of participating in collective prayers at mosques in Istanbul stand in stark contrast to her experiences back home

A Pakistani woman’s experiences of participating in collective prayers at mosques in Istanbul stand in stark contrast to her experiences back home

While women going to mosques is commonplace here, the number of attendees multiply on special days or occasions such as Fridays, the taraweeh [Ramazan prayers] or Eid prayers.

I’m not sure if it happens in all major mosques, but in Ayasofya, the gates are closed once the mosque is filled to capacity. The guards don’t let anyone enter after a certain time. On Fridays especially, the number of people, both men and women, coming for the Friday prayer is huge.

People, including Muslim tourists, want to say their prayers in this great mosque of immense historical and political importance. It was built as a cathedral in 532 AD, served as the seat of coronation for the Byzantine emperors, changed into a mosque after the Ottoman conquest of Istanbul in 1453, converted into a museum nearly 500 years later and, now, serves as a mosque again.

To accommodate everyone, arrangements are made which aren’t too different from what we are used to seeing in Pakistan on Fridays: laying out mats outside the mosque so that people can say their prayers. The only difference is that mats are laid out for both men and women, with a distance of a few metres in between.

I found out about this when I got late one Friday and had to say my prayers outside the mosque, along with a considerable crowd of women of varying ages, and nationalities. It was an interesting experience to pray under a searing sun as curious tourists passing by looked on.

In famous mosques like the Ayasofya or the Sultan Ahmet Mosque, commonly known as the Blue Mosque, you get to see women from around the world who come to pray. I once saw an elderly woman in a beautiful sari, who was visiting Istanbul with her son and daughter-in-law and had come to Hagia Sophia for Friday prayers.

While her colourful silk sari stood out in the crowd, attracting curious gazes from other women, I was amused by the jewellery she was wearing. She had a guluband (choker) clasped around her neck, a lighter version of the satlara haar (a South-Asian variation of the opera necklace) cascaded down the front, heavy rings adorned her fingers and gold bangles clanked every time she moved her hands.

The woman couldn’t sit on the floor, so she sat on the corner of the elevated platform, covered her head with the sari’s pallu and said her prayers. When we were exiting the hall after the namaz, I approached her and said to her in Urdu that a woman in a sari, saying the Friday prayers in Hagia Sophia, was the last thing I expected to see in Istanbul. We both laughed. She asked if I were from India. I told her my father was from Hyderabad Deccan — which delighted her. She was from Agra.

I wanted to ask if I could take her picture because I was sure I would never see a sari-clad bejewelled woman in Ayasofya (or probably in Istanbul) again. But it seemed like too awkward an ask so I refrained.

But she was not the only surprise these mosques had in store for me.

The women’s sections of the mosques here are often full of children as well. Women bring their kids along and the children behave like children, without anyone shushing or hushing or scolding them for running or playing in the hall.

I find this to be in complete contrast to what I experienced as a kid when I used to go to the mosque on some Fridays with my aunts. The first floor of the huge mosque-complex there was reserved for women. Playing there or running around was usually met with stern grunts. The kids (including myself) were also discouraged to talk amongst ourselves; we were expected to sit quiet as a mouse. As a result, most kids often fell asleep during the khutba.

It is refreshing for me to see how the kids are treated in mosques here. While the mothers listen to the sermon or pray, kids run around and play. New friendships are made. A young Turkish woman, a journalist by profession, who has been going to mosques since she was a kid, once said to me that it is these friendships and the excitement of meeting your friends there that encourages kids to go to mosques with their mothers and grandmothers. These visits then turn into life-long habits in many cases.

Ramazan is the peak season for children to have fun at the mosque, owing to the large number of women visitors for taraweeh. In a 316-year-old mosque on the Asian side of Istanbul, I saw queues of women saying their taraweeh in the open courtyard outside their designated section. While some kids try to emulate their mothers in saying the prayers, others have ample time to do whatever they want to in the absence of adult supervision.

In some mosques, the local government or the mosque’s management arrange for special post-taraweeh activities, such as food, games and open-air theatre, which attract even larger crowds.

Even in smaller neighbourhood mosques, which do not have dedicated spaces for women in the main prayer hall, some adjacent rooms — such as those designated for Quran classes — are reserved for women and kids for taraweeh.

In such places, it doesn’t remain a religious activity solely; women socialise after the prayers. Someone brings tea, someone else snacks. Once the namaz is done, people stay back and have lively discussions on every topic, ranging from international affairs to those concerning the neighbourhood.

My favourite post-taraweeh moment, however, remains the group of women I saw outside my neighbourhood mosque this Ramazan. Dressed in abayas and scarves, they were standing outside the mosque door, collectively enjoying a post-taraweeh smoke in complete silence.

The writer is a freelance journalist based in Istanbul

Published in Dawn, EOS, April 5th, 2026

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